My #BeReal guest today is Katie Bingham-Smith.
I just yelled at my son. I am not wearing makeup, I am not dressed. My house is peppered with Lego pieces, folded laundry and forts made from pillows and blankets. I ate too much pizza and I am crabby. This is me being real, right now.
I went to my mother’s house last night. I was relaxed, dressed up and drank wine while she made my family and me dinner. We talked about politics, writing, and mistakes. We both cried a little, then we ate cake. I was being real, she was being real. It was real.
I bought some new underwear and a bra the other day. I came home and tried them on with high heels. I looked at myself, noticed all of my imperfections but I was gentle. I noticed the things I like about myself too. Why are the imperfections so much easier to believe? Why do they sometimes seem more real?
I volunteered at my kids’ school the other day. The teacher left me a note about how panicked she was and how much help she needed. All I wanted to do in that moment was make it better for her. I was being real.
When my college boyfriend and I broke up I fell apart. I sobbed, I was broken. I felt like I was bleeding from the inside- and I told him. I was being real.
When my oldest son had two severe panic attacks before he had an emergency appendectomy I kept it together. In those moments I was not being real. I was overcome with fear. I had no idea how to help him as I stood next to his stiff body, listening to the nurses instructions, holding a paper bag for him to breath into as they pumped a sedative into his veins.
When I collapsed into my husbands’ arms and cried after they wheeled him away because I had held it together long enough; relief and panic flowing through me, I was being real.
If I tell you I love you, I am being real.
If I tell you I miss you, I am being real.
If I tell you I need you, I am being real.
If I am being vulnerable, I am bring real.
If I have my guard up, I am being real.
As I am writing this I am wondering: what do you think about a housewife who tries on bras with heels and looks at herself in the mirror?
What do you think about a woman who yells at her son and has a messy house?
What do you think about a woman sobbing in the waiting room over something as small as an appendectomy?
Whatever you think, I am sure it is real, your thoughts, your feelings. But the truth is it doesn’t matter. I am being real, about being me and sharing it with you. That is real.
Being real is such a complicated mix of emotions, experiences, words and feelings. What feels real to you can change from day to day. And that is the best part. One day you are struggling, just trudging through, and the next, you feel like nothing can stop you. That is real. Just feel it.
Finding those people you can be real with is the most beautiful thing about being here in this one life. And for me, when people can be real with me it is everything. My favorite kind of gift.
Katie Bingham- Smith had three kids in three years and crafts her ass off in order to stay sane. She loves to write, wear faux leather pants, eat at burger joints, and make beautiful things. She pays her kids to rub her feet and play with her hair. You can see more on her blog www.philigry.com Facebook and Instagram
Connect with her at firstname.lastname@example.org